


On Target

by alivingsaint



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Fellatio, Gun Kink, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26371939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alivingsaint/pseuds/alivingsaint
Summary: Peter isn't impressed by the state of Chris' security system, but he's more than willing to play the game.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	On Target

**Author's Note:**

> This is an older fic that I originally added to accompany a [gifset](https://inouken.tumblr.com/post/82431332286/childofgondorsworld-inouken-i-imagine-this) on tumblr. The fic itself isn’t nearly as humorous as the gifset, but I wanted my questionable gun!kink and the right to cry about it, too. Goddamnit. 
> 
> Edited and updated for AO3. 
> 
> Thank you, [andithil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andithil/), for the beta as usual. <3

Peter raises his eyebrows. It’s always like this. Every time he stops by Argent’s apartment, Chris acts indignant like he hasn’t been inviting Peter in, like every lock and chain he’s fastened to the door hasn’t been an issued challenge for Peter to break them. It’s a pretense more than it’s a preventative measure, tiresome and born out of a pathetic need to test both of their levels of patience and resolve. 

The fact of the matter is that Chris could upgrade his security system if fortifying his defenses against Peter was anywhere near a top priority in his life. Chris could ward every single room in his stupid, high-end apartment. He could pull a gun on Peter or brandish one of the many knives he keeps concealed beneath his clothes. 

There was a time when Chris wouldn’t hesitate to stab him, to take aim and unlock his gun’s safety catch right in Peter’s face. 

Peter misses inspiring that kind of visceral hatred from him on occasion, but regardless of nostalgia, he doesn’t have it in him to be upset with the lay of the field now. Not with Chris standing in the doorway to block him in, to hold him accountable for an answer that Chris already knows. It’s impossible not to take some degree of pleasure from that knowledge. 

He can barely suppress a smirk. 

“I could’ve just let myself into your bedroom, you know. Aren’t you glad I’m not completely without manners?" Peter settles back with ease against the cushions.

"There are better words to describe how I feel about your manners.” Chris works his jaw. “You break into my apartment and loiter uninvited. You presumptuously assume that I’m going to give you what you want.” Tension sets into the broad line of his shoulders, and Peter notes it with a smile. He thinks about making those shoulders shake as Chris tries to stop himself from breaking. 

“Should I come back some other time, then?” Peter spreads his legs in complete disregard of his own question. 

Chris’ expression darkens, hands balling into fists at his sides. 

Peter hums thoughtfully and continues with a flourishing gesture. “Tomorrow?” he pauses before wheedling, “After dinner, perhaps?”

Like Peter, it’s an open invitation, but Chris stands stock-still and weighted by his own infuriating restraint. 

“Get out,” he hisses, finally stepping aside. His fingers bunch around the handle of the door as he holds it wide open. 

Peter would be disappointed if he weren’t familiar with Chris on an intimate level, if he didn’t recognize the signs of what might as well be foreplay in Christopher Argent’s book. 

The index of Chris’ stubborn self-righteousness. 

The preface of his internalized resentment. 

Peter pushes off the couch having already devoured every single one of Chris’ dogeared pages. He knows the hunter like he knows the palm of his right hand. He’s confident in that assertion. Each step towards Chris is deliberate as something like understanding softens the lines around his eyes. 

“Of course,” Peter says. “I can go." 

But he doesn’t. 

He stops in front of Chris, appraising the angry set of his teeth and the thudding beat of Chris’ heart. "Tell you what. You answer one question for me, Argent, and depending on the validity of your answer, I’ll take my leave." 

It’s an offer he’s willing to make when Chris already looks like he either wants to punch him in the face or slam his body against a wall. Either option is preferable to leaving Chris alone like this, keyed up on Peter’s words without an outlet for release. 

Besides, Chris owes Peter for the trouble he extends just to reach him, for the hassle of drawing him past his needless layers of self-regulation and control. 

Peter smiles at Chris, cool and composed. His teeth remain hidden behind his lips. 

"I’m not going to play your goddamn _game_ , Hale,” Chris grits out. 

“It’s just as much yours as it is mine, and you know it.” Peter holds his gaze. “It’s not my fault you’re being persistently self-defeating." 

Chris’ hand curls around the door handle so hard his knuckles turn white. "There’s a difference between self-defeat and not wanting any part of it,” he says hatefully.

“You want me at your mercy, though,” Peter observes, relishing the harsh pulse that rushes through Chris’ body in response. Peter leans in, conspiratorial. “Let me guess. On my knees for you and completely unable to speak?" 

For the first time that evening, Chris’ breathing shudders, forced between his teeth. "Get out,” he says again, but Peter can hear his voice beginning to break inside his throat. 

“Answer the question,” Peter tells him. He treads the line between prompting and jeering. His smile is far too sharp to be kind. “If the answer is no, I’ll get out of your hair for the evening, just like I promised.”

A humorless laugh rips out of Chris’ chest. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Peter quirks a brow, and Chris elaborates, “A confession that you could hold over my head like a sentence.” 

Peter wouldn’t say no, but it’s not what he’s after. 

“You know what I’d really like, Argent?” He steps all the way in, as close as he can get without bridging the distance to physical contact. His eyes are hooded and his voice drops low. “I’d like for you to get over yourself already. Just do us both a favor and drop the fucking act." 

Seething resentment breaks over Chris’ face, and there’s a moment of intense silence before Peter feels the cold muzzle of a revolver thrust against his temple. "It’s only an act if it isn’t true.” Chris grits his teeth, every muscle tense, every word bitten off and sharpened. “Leave. _Now._ I won’t repeat myself again.”

Chris jabs the gun hard against Peter’s skull, and Peter sucks in a breath, mouth opening in a breathless chuckle. It’s been a long time, but they’ve been here before, done the same dance, reflexes warped and conditioned from what they should be when logic fails to carry them through. 

“Go ahead and do it,” Peter goads because he can, because Chris’ hand is shaking. “Come on, Argent. Show me the honor behind your precious code.” 

Instead he gets the sound of anguished frustration. Chris snarls as he grabs him by the hair and drives the barrel of the gun under Peter’s jaw. There’s killing intent in his eyes, but his scent is heavier than the biting promise of murder. Arousal always winds deeper in a person, saturating them right to their primal core. 

“Come on, Christopher." 

Peter could mock him for hesitating. He almost needs to, some degree of madness making him want to stick it to the hunter where it hurts. Peter’s not a total masochist, however. Lethal risks aren’t the slightest bit appealing, unlike the calculated move he makes as he tilts his head back and murmurs, "How come I always have to do all the work here?" 

He keeps his mouth parted, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip. It’s as subtle as he can get before making it obvious, watching Chris’ eyes go wide as he nudges the gun from under him to take it into his mouth. 

“Don’t,” Chris hisses. His fingers tighten in Peter’s hair. "Don’t you goddamn start.” But he doesn’t push him away. He doesn’t stop what Peter’s doing, dull human nails scraping Peter’s scalp as he sucks the barrel down. Chris’ breathing grows ragged just from witnessing it. But Peter supposes Chris can feel the movement of the gun as well, the way Peter makes it bob in his hand as he sets a rhythm that’s unmistakable. 

This is how he plays to win, unashamed and unforgiving, sliding his mouth along the barrel like he’s tempting the darkest kind of sin. 

Chris yanks Peter back to face him, jerky in how he handles the gun that he keeps lodged between Peter’s jaws. "You’re a twisted fuck, you know that?" His eyes are furious, and to Peter’s delight, he pushes the gun further into his mouth, getting involved with coming undone all on his own. "Flirting with death again,” Chris sneers, “like you can’t fucking get enough of it.”

It’s meant as an accusation as far as Peter can tell, but there’s a conflicted look in Chris’ eyes that blazes between repulsion and appreciable lust. 

Intoxicating doesn’t even begin to cover all the bases, so Peter leans in for the final stretch, taking more of the barrel into his mouth as he gives Chris an indecent and throaty moan. He doesn’t care what Chris thinks about him so long as it gets him what he wants. Chris can tell himself whatever lie he pleases. He can misinterpret his motivations to hell and back if it makes himself feel better about wanting the exact same thing that Peter does, too. 

Peter doesn’t know how to make the connection anymore goddamn blatant for him, but he tightens his lips around the gun while staring at Chris with a burning promise in his eyes. 

“You’re insane,” Chris manages. His voice is whispered and hoarse, but his gaze still follows Peter’s movements, hand trembling with each wet slide of the gun between Peter’s lips. 

“Fuck, _Peter._ ” 

The sheer need that claws out of Chris’ throat has Peter achingly and unbearably hard. It’s almost torturous, seeing Chris fraying without getting to feel his body beneath his hands and lips and tongue. He wants to take Chris into his mouth and feel the weight of him until he’s flushed and moaning for Peter’s mercy. 

Metal clacks against Peter’s teeth in his distraction. He groans, reduced to a guttural, pathetic sound that’s apparently too much for even Chris to handle. The hunter tears the gun from Peter’s mouth, cursing as he thrusts it against the side of Peter’s head again. It’s an empty threat except in its aggression, matching the way Chris suddenly slams their lips together and scrapes the flats of his teeth over Peter’s bottom lip. 

Peter sinks into the kiss, breathing hard as he nips back in retaliation. It’s all he can do to keep his canines in check when Chris jerks their bodies together at the taste of gunmetal coating Peter’s tongue.

Peter arches instantly, clawed hands pushing him back against the door. Christ, Chris’ body feels good beneath his own. It always has, the way tension draws up inside the hunter like a cord about to snap. Peter grinds himself forward to chase the feeling, completely heedless of the gun until Chris twists the barrel for a better angle and gasps. 

“You son of a bitch.” His hand fists like a vice in Peter’s hair. “Just get on your goddamn knees already." 

He doesn’t push more than that. He doesn’t have to when Peter’s been anticipating those very words. 

Peter drags his tongue over the healing mark on his lip that Chris’ teeth had left behind. "About time,” is all he says.

Chris snarls before forcing him to the floor. 

Peter goes easily, appreciating the urgency behind Chris’ conviction with a low laugh. His attention is already focused on working Chris’ belt and fly open as quickly as possible. Lord knows they’ve skirted around the topic long enough.

By the time Peter has his hand wrapped around Chris’ cock, Chris is panting beautifully. 

He also shifts the gun to point at the center of Peter’s forehead. 

“Pushy, pushy,” Peter says, but he doesn’t even give Chris the chance to breathe before he’s taking all of him in. 

Chris makes a delicious, strangled sound, head going back against the door as his hips buck forward. Peter lets him. Peter takes it, mouth and throat going slack to encourage Chris to unravel at the seams. 

Like clockwork, Chris falls into the invitation. He puts on the best damn show, all of his internal checks and balances shattering under the influence of Peter’s persuasion. He plunges into him, fucking his mouth and growling with every merciless thrust. 

The gun quivers in his grasp, and Peter feels each shudder of Chris’ body through the tip of it, through Chris’ hand when his nails break the surface of his scalp. It takes all of Peter’s concentration not to gag from the force of him, but the effort’s more than worth the pain. 

Chris tastes like sweat and desperation and a battle lost to the perfect simplicity of Peter’s tongue. Peter allows himself the luxury of indulging in that moment, in Chris’ brutality as Peter’s eyes shift to a supernatural blue. 

“Fuck!” Chris jolts and writhes under the attention. His dick jerks in Peter’s mouth, chest heaving on a mangled gasp that works its way out of him. “Fucking _damnit_." 

Chris stutters in his rhythm, and Peter recognizes the signs. His hands scrabble around Chris’ hipbones, pinning him back as he arches and comes down Peter’s throat. Chris fights him all the way, groaning and straining to fuck the last of himself through orgasm, but Peter just grips him tighter, claws digging in until Chris is shuddering and collapsing against the door. 

The gun swings down with the dead weight of Chris’ hand as he curses Peter one last time, bitterly releasing his hair from his grasp. Peter lets out a small, appreciative hum in turn, not at all hurried when he pulls off of Chris with a self-satisfied smirk. 

Chris looks positively wrecked before him. The hunter draws in deep breaths, head leaning back and eyes clenching shut in exhaustion. 

Peter’s never been so turned on. His eyes catalogue every detail. The sheen of perspiration on him. The rumpled appearance of Chris’ clothes. 

Peter tears at his own fly, impatient as he huffs and takes himself in hand. Stroking fast, he pushes forward and loses himself in sensation, eyes sliding closed for a moment at the shiver of pleasure shooting up his spine. 

The click of a safety catch startles his eyes wide open.

"Sorry,” Peter hears when Chris snaps into focus again, second only to the gun being held precariously close to Peter’s face. Chris’ hand is markably steadier than it had been seconds prior, expression going cold as he tucks himself away and out of Peter’s sight. Growling, Chris says, "Not today, I’m afraid. You’re gonna have to jerk off someplace else.”

It falls into place all too fast. The fact that Chris hadn’t removed the safety from the beginning, the fact that he’d waited Peter out, _anticipating_ the moment that he could catch Peter at an overwhelming disadvantage. 

Peter feels something wash through his system like acid, hot and corrosive, caustically stripping layers from the inside out. “Unexpected,” he says slowly. His fangs sharpen in his mouth. “Nice play, Argent, but we both know you aren’t actually going to kill me." 

Chris glares at Peter, holding the gun as steady as the pulse that beats through him. “Wouldn’t I?” he asks. His tone is deadly calm and rankles in the worst way, curdling Peter’s mood as he shoves his dick unceremoniously back into his pants. 

“Not for this,” Peter snaps. “It’s far too petty and beneath you." 

Chris smiles tight and hard behind the aimed precision of his gun. “Perhaps,” he says, "but shooting you sure seems like it’d be fair game.” 

He shifts his aim and hoists Peter up by the collar, dragging him close enough that Peter’s impulses scream to hurt him. Peter thinks he would, given the opportunity. If Chris weren’t holding a gun to his crotch now, Peter would shred that stupid smile right off his stupid face.

“You’re going to regret this,” Peter says. Through his fangs, his words rumble like thunder from his throat. 

Chris tilts his chin, regarding him with even consideration. “It’s possible,” he concedes. Then he presses the heel of the gun against Peter’s dick and grinds up like an asshole. Peter can’t help arching into it, muttering curses of his own now that Chris is watching him squirm. 

“More like highly probable,” Peter corrects. His voice is a thinly veiled threat, shuddering out of him as he rocks his hips in pure, defiant spite. “You’re going to be sorry, Christopher.” 

Chris lets Peter take what he wants, but he doesn’t make it pleasant. He sets the pace all wrong, slow and torturous as he leans in to chuckle, “Well, I guess next time we’ll find out if you’re right.” 


End file.
